


miles of mountains

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Belting, Blackwatch Commander McCree, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, M/M, Scent Kink, Spanking, Stink Kink, Sweat, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 23:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo





	

Gabriel has never seen the Commander’s quarters before.

The package in his hands feels suddenly leaden, impossibly heavy for reasons entirely unrelated to it being full of illegal cigars, and McCree’s words ring in his ears as he stares at the room.

_”Go drop this off for me, on my desk. In and out again, like a good boy.”_

It’s entirely unremarkable--a little bigger than Gabriel’s own, with a private bathroom attached and a single bed instead of bunks, an old desk in the corner--but what matters is that it’s _Commander McCree’s_. Gabriel finds himself drawn in like a moth to a flame, looking around the room as his feet take him in further, almost of their own accord.

It’s messy, but not unbearably so--like the Commander himself, Gabriel thinks. He sets the box of cigars down on the desk by a stack of mission folders, and turns slowly, telling himself he’s going to leave; he’s not going to pry, not going to peek around McCree’s quarters just to discover more things about him, not going to focus his gaze on the hamper of dirty clothes in the corner…

But he does.

Gabriel glances fleetingly toward the open door. The hallway is empty; other people rarely dare to come to McCree’s room unless explicitly told. The Commander himself was tied up with training, hence why he’d given Gabriel the delivery assignment in the first place.

No one would know.

Slowly, Gabriel crosses the room, his footfalls light on the hardwood floor--as if that would help him, if someone came looking--and his breath held. McCree’s hamper is set up against the corner of his room, made of blue mesh and wire and as Gabriel comes closer he can see how full it is: undershirts and socks and BDUs all piled up, crammed into the little space with very little room to spare. It’s when Gabriel gets a step away that he first notices the smell, all sweat and musk and unwashed male, and it’s almost by accident that he finds his eyes drawn to the pair of boxers lying on top of the stack of dirty clothes like a centerpiece.

They’re green plaid and trimmed in blue, and if the worn-thin spots and fraying thread are anything to go by probably fifty years old--anyone who’s ever asked has gotten the same story about McCree’s clothes, his lopsided grin and logic of, _“They fit me when I was 17 and they fit me now, so what’s the point in getting new ones?”_

Gabriel hasn’t ever minded, really, save for the odd moment of embarrassment when he sees his Commander changing into his old, stained sweatpants on their transport flights home; but he finds that he especially doesn’t mind, right now, as he reaches out for the hamper without even really meaning to. This close he can smell them even stronger, and the scent is heady, makes him dizzy. His fingers brush fabric worn soft with age and before he can talk himself out of it, before his mind can catch up to what his dick wants, he’s snatched the boxers out of the hamper.

He stares down at them in his hand, and there’s a rush of giddy disbelief, the kind of thrill that he knows only comes with the taboo, the forbidden--like a teenager sneaking out of the house on a school night, or a young covert ops agent going through his superior’s dirty laundry. For a few breathless moments he can’t believe he’s done it, can’t believe that he’s holding Blackwatch Commander Jesse McCree’s dirty underwear in his hand; and then, riding the high of the theft, he brings the boxers up to his face and buries his nose in the soft folds of sweat-stained fabric.

The first inhale almost chokes him--it’s musky and salty and so pungent with the aroma of testosterone that Gabriel can practically taste it, a sour-earthy note on the back of his tongue when he opens his mouth to breathe. He sucks in more of the scent until he’s dizzy with it, pulls back to gulp in air like he’s dying; and it’s only then, amid the sounds of his soft panting, that he hears the long, low whistle.

“Well. Ain’t this somethin’.”

Gabriel jerks the boxers away so fast he nearly dislocates his shoulder.

When he whips around, his eyes are wide, blood ice in his veins; he clasps his hands behind his back to try to hide the evidence still clutched in his fingers, and the way that one of McCree’s bushy brows quirks up in curious interest makes his stomach drop.

“What’ve we got here?” McCree asks, nonchalant as he shrugs off the doorframe and takes a step forward, his boots thudding ominously against the hardwood floor. The door shuts behind him with a hiss. “I could’ve sworn I told you to put that package on my desk, not snoop around my room...and yet…”

He stops when he’s but a step away, towering over Gabriel with his eyes glittering in the shadow under his hat, and Gabriel swallows down the lump in his throat like thorns.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, his voice tight; his fists tighten in the fabric of the boxers hidden behind his back, and he stares at the uneven line of scruff on McCree’s cheek because he can’t stand the thought of meeting his eyes. He starts to edge away, shuffling past his Commander with jerky movements, arms still behind his back. “I’ll just--go--”

“Ah, ah.” One of McCree’s big hands grabs at Gabriel’s shoulder, jerks him back around--and Gabriel squeezes his eyes shut because he knows his cover is blown, knows McCree is staring at the dirty boxers in his hands, can tell by the way his grip tightens on Gabriel’s shoulder that he’s angry.

He’s fucked up good, this time.

“Snooping in my quarters, _and_ stealing from a commanding officer…” McCree trails off with another soft whistle and shakes his head. His hand squeezes and relaxes on Gabriel’s shoulder, a slow rhythm that teases him with just the idea of freedom. “You could get in a lot of trouble for this, punk. You know that, don’t’cha?”

Gabriel finds his throat has gone dry. He feels rooted to the spot, nailed down by the mischief, the glittering amusement, in McCree’s dark eyes. “...yes, sir.”

“But you did it anyway. Even knowin’ it was wrong.”

Another dry swallow. Gabriel shuffles his feet uncomfortably, feels the weight of the boxers as lead in his hands. “Yes, sir.”

“Mmm.” McCree walks away from him, turns to head back toward his bed. “Now why, pray tell, might that be?”

Gabriel’s heart jackhammers in his chest, quick as a caught bird’s. He debates just running, making a break for the exit--facing the court-martial would be easier than this. Less humiliating.

“...sir?”

McCree settles himself on the side of his unmade bed and glances up with a frown. “Don’t play dumb, kid. You were sniffin’ around, tryin’ to take my underwear for a reason. So what is it? You got some kind of disease, makes it so you can’t tell what’s yours and what’s not?”

“No, I--”

“You what? You thought I was hidin’ your progress evaluation in my drawers, is that it?”

“No!” Gabriel can tell he’s panicking, and he twists his fingers tighter in the boxers, working them nervously. If he could just explain--

McCree leans forward, a glint in his eye. “Oh, I get it. It’s real simple, ain’t it?” He draws back his lip, sneering, “Despite what you said, all we’ve done for you, you’re still some low-life petty thief, ain’t able to keep the _street_ outta you--”

“That’s _not_ it!” Gabriel snaps, and he doesn’t know if the flush on his cheeks is from anger or embarrassment and right now he doesn’t _care_. He charges on blindly, the words spilling from his mouth in his desperate ire, his need to get them out: “I took them because it’s _hot_ , okay! Fuck!”

That, at least, is enough to make McCree fall silent.

It also makes Gabriel want to melt through the floor.

“...hot.” McCree repeats the word like he’s never heard it before, one brow arched as he stares Gabriel down; then he grins, a slow thing that stretches across his lips, and it’s wolfish and coy and so alluring that Gabriel can’t help but take a stumbling step forward. “You think my dirty boxers are hot, agent? That’s what you’re tellin’ me?”

And, well--it’s not the worst reaction he could’ve had, Gabriel supposes; he guesses that when compared to having the man’s dick in his ass, seeing him trying to steal boxers isn’t such a terrible grievance. Still, the look in McCree’s eyes makes him nervous, and he licks his lips before he takes another halting step forward, his grip on the fabric relaxing a little.

“...y-yes, sir.” He swallows, tries again, in an attempt to be bolder, follow this path wherever it goes--they’ve already fucked, what’s the worst that can happen? “They’re--real hot. Smell like you--”

“Like my sweat,” McCree corrects, leaning back on one hand and eyeing Gabriel up like he could devour him on the spot. It makes Gabriel shiver, makes his cock stir with interest in his jeans.

McCree’s grin grows, quirking up at the edges--like he knows something. Gabriel shifts as that honeyed drawl continues, “They smell like my ass, and my dick. Like my sweaty, unwashed balls.” He pauses for effect, then says with finality, “They _stink_ , kid. To high heaven. And you think that’s hot?”

And Gabriel wants to answer--wants to do a million things, like run from the room or drop to his knees and offer to lick McCree’s balls right now, or get those big fingers in his ass--but instead, he just stands and stares, mouth slack like an idiot as McCree chuckles, long and low. His head shakes, shaggy hair settling a little over his eyes.

“Alright, then.” He shifts a little, and his belt is pulled free of the loops with the soft clink of its buckle, set aside on the bed. He spreads his legs a little wider where he sits, and claps a hand down on one thigh. “C’mere, runt. You know what’s comin’.”

Gabriel doesn’t, really, but he can guess--and he staggers forward like his dick is leading the way, stiffening up at the mere prospect of getting close to McCree again, of tasting him--

But as soon as he’s close enough, McCree’s hand reaches up, and tangles in Gabriel’s dark curls. He jerks him down with all force and no grace, grins at the breathless noise that Gabriel makes when his torso collides with the solid muscle of McCree’s thighs.

“There we go…’s a nice look for you, ya know,” McCree comments, voice light as his hand as it trails over the curve of Gabriel’s ass, gives the plump muscle a squeeze. “All bent over, subdued...aw, fuckin’ hell, gimme those--” And he snatches the boxers from Gabriel’s desperate fingers, just to reach around and cram them past Gabriel’s lips, stuff them against that writhing tongue with a snap of, “Hey, quit your fightin’. Trust me, you’re gonna be needin’ those, in a sec.”

Gabriel huffs, his cheeks flushing darker as he glares down at the messy bedspread--because he can taste McCree now, in the fabric of his underwear, the sweat soaked into the fibers of the boxers and moist against his tongue. It’s a heady taste, bitter and musky and nearly overwhelming, thick against the back of his throat and enough to keep him still with just the promise that he’ll get more. He can’t deny his arousal now, his cock straining against his jeans and digging against McCree’s thigh; he tries to grind, subtly working his hips against the solid presence of McCree’s leg, and earns a swat to his ass for his troubles.

“Stop that.” McCree’s voice has lost its charm--he sounds like he does on the battlefield, all rules and seriousness, all traces of mirth and playfulness gone. “You’ve been bad, goin’ through my stuff like that, snoopin’ around. You know it, don’t’cha? You’ve earned this punishment.”

Gabriel nods--swallows the spit collected in his mouth, moans softly at the salty, tangy taste it carries, the remnants of McCree. His dick is so hard it hurts, and he buries his face in his arms as he imagines the look of triumph on McCree’s face.

“Good.” McCree’s voice is softer, now; almost distracted, as he doubles the belt over his hand, gives it a practice crack against the bed. The noise it makes is muffled by the comforter, but loud enough to make Gabriel jump, make him try to look around--

But then the leather bites into his ass, sharp like teeth, and he barely hears McCree’s, “Stay _still_ , now,” over his own howl.

He writhes on the bed like a live wire, lit up from the ass-end by each slap of McCree’s belt; and then McCree’s hand is there, grabbing the back of his neck in a vice-grip and forcing his face down against the messy sheets, holding him still to dole out more punishment. Each crack of the belt rings out in the room like a gunshot-- _thack, thack, thack_. It chips away at his pride with every strike, until he’s squirming and crying, too thankful for the boxers in his mouth that muffle his yells to really care about the tears streaking his cheeks.

It stops, nearly ten minutes later. The belt is set down on the bed and Gabriel gulps in a shuddery gasp of air, his belly fluttering with shaky little breaths as he tries to ignore how his ass _burns_. He goes lax against McCree’s lap and buries his face into his arms, letting his muscles relax while he sniffles--and his cock still throbs, resolutely hard throughout the ordeal, determined to make itself known.

Later, Gabriel will wish it wasn’t.

Because McCree isn’t done--he stands, pulls Gabriel up with a fist in his short hair, all but throws him toward the desk. Gabriel just barely catches himself as he spits the boxers onto the floor, and his yelp is loud as McCree grabs a fistful of his hoodie, jerking his chest up so his spine curves in a way that presents his ass better for punishment.

“You didn’t think we were done, did you?” McCree asks, winding back; in this position, he can get a better swing, and when his belt connects with Gabriel’s ass this time he yowls, tries to jerk away from the pain, fingers scrabbling at the desk.

He loses track of how long the belting goes on--between the stinging in his ass and the blood keeping his cock stiff and drooling, he’s left lightheaded when McCree finally steps away.

“There, now.” McCree sounds winded; panting softly on every exhale, and Gabriel blinks back the tears before he turns to face his Commander. There’s a hungry look in McCree’s dark eyes, something Gabriel hasn’t seen since the last time they fucked, and his voice is low, heavy as he asks, “You think you learned your lesson, kid?”

Gabriel swallows thickly, licks his lips, and is acutely aware of how his dick _throbs_.

“No, sir.”

****

-x-

Lip-locked, they go from desk to floor to desk again, and wind up on the bed. McCree peels his clothes off and throws them into a pile by the pillow, and it’s there that Gabriel finds himself, on his hands and knees with McCree’s grip keeping his head pressed down against McCree’s sweaty shirt.

“Look at you,” McCree says, working two fingers in Gabriel’s ass in lazy little motions to open him up, delighting in how easy it is to pull those low, shamed whines from his throat. “Got your nose buried in my dirty laundry...you like how those sweatstains smell? Like how they taste?”

Gabriel doesn’t reply--just moans when McCree crooks his fingers, presses up sharp inside of him--and that’s answer enough. McCree chuckles and pulls his fingers out with a slick noise that has Gabriel blushing all the way down to his shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. For all you try to act tough, kid, I know what you really are--just a dirty, horny boy, trying to rub one out over the smell of a real man’s sweat. Isn’t that right?”

Gabriel keens, arching his hips up to try to chase the feeling of McCree’s fingers, his own knotting desperately in the damp fabric of McCree’s shirt. Were he not so far gone in his head, high on McCree’s treatment, he’d be ashamed, humiliated at his own neediness; but as it is, all he can think about is how empty he feels, how heavy his cock is, and how badly he needs something to get him off.

And saturating his nose, damp against his tongue, warm pressed up against his back; everywhere, all at once--is McCree.

Gabriel whines when he pushes in; because it’s slow, unhurried, McCree savouring every moment of the stretch, of the feeling of Gabriel’s hole parting and yielding for his hard cock. When they’re finally settled hips to hips, McCree’s hand strokes down Gabriel’s spine to soothe the tremor that laces through him, and he grabs one handful of Gabriel’s plush ass to knead and squeeze.

“Used to bein’ a little pillow princess, ain’t ya?” he asks, bucking his hips forward sharply just to watch Gabriel’s face be pushed further into his sweaty clothes, delighting in his shamed little moan. “Used to sittin’ back and havin’ everyone pamper you ‘cause you’re cute, give you everything you want. Not here, sweetheart.”

The pace he sets is torturous, too slow to really give Gabriel much friction and too hard when he rams into his prostate; it makes Gabriel’s toes curl, and he grabs at McCree’s shirt with his teeth, biting into the fabric to stifle the keening noise that leaves him on McCree’s next pounding thrust. He tries to arch his hips back, roll his pelvis a little to meet McCree’s own, and earns a breathless-sounding laugh for his trouble.

“What? It ain’t that easy, darlin’. Nasty little thing like you, you want this dick, you’re gonna have to work for it.” He gives Gabriel’s ass a slap to watch the flesh jiggle, fluid and downright obscene. “Show me you want it, dirty boy. Fuck yourself on this cock.”

Gabriel tries--God but he tries, bracing his hands on the bed and rocking himself backward to sheath McCree’s length in him again and again, faster as his urgency grows. It gives him the quick friction he craves, but not the depth that he needs; and he cries out with frustration as McCree’s hips stay resolutely still, well and truly making Gabriel do all the work.

“There you go,” McCree murmurs, urging Gabriel on with a slap to his ass, grinning at how it makes him shiver. “My nasty little boy...working hard, all for me.”


End file.
